by submission | Apr 27, 2012 | Story |
Author : Donald O’Barra
“You’re so full of shit, Barry,” said Kent.
“No, I’m serious. I was reading about gene activation. They’ve managed to wake up really old genes in lab mice. What if humans thousands of years ago all had superpowers? What if they could fly or something and we just forgot how?”
“So I take it that your X-Men box set arrived, then?” asked Kent.
“Well yes,” said Barry, “but that has nothing to do with it. Look at the pyramids. They’re huge. They didn’t have machinery back then like we do now. The only way they could have built those is if they were super strong.”
“I read that they used ramps and levers. And they had a huge manual labour force”
“How do we know?” asked Barry defensively.
“Well, we don’t. But that’s the most logical explanation.” said Kent.
“See? I read somewhere that the pyramids are even older than we think. They just didn’t have the technology to do something like that. And anyway, they would take centuries to build with ramps and levers.”
“So that’s what you’re basing this on? The pyramids?”
“Not just the pyramids! What about those Nazi lines in South America? They’re pictures that can only be seen from the air. What would be the point if we couldn’t fly?” asked a triumphant Barry.
“Nazca Lines,” corrected Kent,” and those could have been done with rope and a brain.”
“But why do it at all if nobody could see them?”
Kent thought for a while and replied, “To pay homage to their gods, I suppose.”
“That brings me to another point!” cried Barry. There were little balls of spit forming at the corners of his mouth. “What if all these legends of gods and things were just people remembering how things used to be? It’s still happening! What if Superman is just a story about a normal, prehistoric human?”
“You seriously believe that we used to be super strong and be able to fly? What sense would it make for us to get weaker?”
“Aha! I’m glad you asked. Civilisation, man. Civilisation killed us. Think about it. We were suddenly banding together so we didn’t need to be so individually strong. And and and look at the dinosaurs! They were WAY stronger than the animals that we have now.”
“And the flying? Surely that would have been useful, even in civilised culture.” Kent allowed himself a smirk. Surely Barry wouldn’t have an answer for this one. Airplanes were only invented a hundred years ago.
“Well they didn’t have the technology to build skyscrapers, right? So all their buildings were squat and small. Flying would actually be a hindrance there! Evolution, man. You can’t be reproducing if you’re floating off all the time.” There was a manic glint in Barry’s eye.
“What about hunting?” asked Kent, trying to beat Barry with his own twisted logic.
“Oh, that would be silly. The prey would see you coming if you attacked from the air. You need ground cover.” said Barry dismissively, lighting a cigarette.
“I can’t believe that my sister is marrying you.” said Kent.
“So anyway,” said Barry, shrugging off the comment, “back to activating dormant genes. If they can do it in mice, why can’t they do it in humans? Just think about it! We could all be superheroes again. I’m going to become a biologist. They’ll give me a Novel prize or something!”
“Nobel,” corrected Kent automatically. “Listen, Barry, your psychotic ramblings have been entertaining as always but I’m late for class. I’ll catch you later.” Kent walked away, his feet never touching the ground.
“Yeah, bye, man.” said Barry staring at his cigarette, a preoccupied look of deep thought on his face.
by submission | Apr 26, 2012 | Story |
Author : David Barber
The woman sitting the other side of the table is Jan Fierro, the Department chief. We’ve never talked much, I mean, I’m just a jack aren’t I? Though once I photoshopped a great nude pinup of her and posted it in the men’s changing room as a joke. I never found who took it down.
She switches on the tape. “For the record.”
“Charlie, Charles Fort. Officer with the GenderPol. And yes, I know Cris Johnson, she was my partner for three years.”
Fierro pushes the first file across the table.
“Yeh, I remember this one. His ex called him in. Porn collection. Really old vids. 2D on magnetic tape.”
“And you and Officer Johnson disagreed about it.”
“Look, we all know porn can incite gynocrime, but this was just a hobby. Jacks collect stuff. Friend of mine has a classic Toyota Camry that runs on gasoline.”
Fierro is about to put him right.
“I know what theory says, but he was no rapist.”
“In your opinion. And what did the law decide?”
“Oh, biochemical castration. Behaviour mods. Temporal lobe remodeling, the lot.”
“But you don’t approve.”
“Crime against women’s down isn’t it? It’s just… No. Nothing.”
She’s sitting, with legs crossed. And one kneecap gleams bone white. It’s enough. Something feral slips the leash and gorges on the swelling and the tightness in the silk; in the flesh. Oh, he’s rescued them all, accepted their chaste kiss, nightly moves their limbs according to his pleasure.
He reads the other file upside down.
“I thought you’d bring that one up. Cris really hated all that stuff. Never knew what you were plugging into. He was wearing a silverlace and…”
“For the record.”
“…a neural interface for total immersion software. Didn’t even know we’d crashed his door. The sim wasn’t a media face. Some woman the jack knew maybe. All it takes is a picture and some software…”
Wearily, I explain the software maps faces onto bodies, so you can have sex with any woman you like using a silverlace.
“Yes, I know a lot about it, it’s my job. And I resent the implication.”
Fierro hands me a statement to read.
“I have never used morphing software involving… Cris Johnson? She said that?”
“Sit down Officer Fort. Unless you’re resigning.”
On the street it’s what they call being jack-knifed.
This was the time I said something about victimless crime and Cris really stomped me. Desensitization theory. Learning to think about women as objects. But I never thought about Cris like that. She was my partner.
Fierro knew something, the bitch.
“As it happens, I don’t think it does affect me.”
I’m clenching my teeth so hard they hurt.
Jack. Their mouthes are red as wounds. Gaping with talk. How I despise them, their clacking heels and ripe ovaries. They do not know me yet. My will be stronger than that blithe flesh. They shall suffer and become wise…
“Yeh, I’ve heard the new scanners can hack right into your dreams. I also know it’s not compulsory.”
Fierro smiles. You have to guess she only uses it for special occasions.
“For the record.”
“That’s my signature, yes.”
PAUSE
Please relax.
“Easy for you to say. Just thinking about women will be a crime soon.”
All gynocrime begins in men’s heads.
“How long before this is compulsory?”
Ask yourself what you have to hide.
“What, from the Thought Police?”
From women.
PAUSE
This is a test.
The headset is part of the scanner. The drug encourages free association. Fantasizing. Here is a picture of a female colleague.
Begin.
by Julian Miles | Apr 23, 2012 | Story |
Author : Julian Miles, Staff Writer
“Sarge, that’s illegal, isn’t it?”
“Yes Jim, completely against the rules of engagement.”
“So we can complain?”
“Hell yes, son. I’m sure the Captain will be right on the blower to the moderators as soon as the opposition finish killing us.”
Trooper Jamieson did not look convinced and Sarge smiled.
“Do you think your Sarge wouldn’t be expecting bad behaviour from the greens? Shame on you. Now pass me the medipack with the blue stripe on it.”
Jamieson did so, hefting the one and a half metre long box without a thought using his mags. Sarge smiled at his control, then slapped him across the back of his helm.
“What have they got out there? What are you doing?”
“Mag detecting godogs Sarge. Lifting your pack using my… oh.”
Sarge shook his head as he grabbed the pack from him. No further comment was needed as Jim got a roasting from the rest of the squad for leaving them open to a reaming from robo-dobermans packed with RDX. He concentrated on opening the pack quietly. No telling if a moderator was passing by. Just because the other side were playing dirty would not save him from a ten amp reprimand. As the dim lights picked out details there were low whistles from the squad, who huddled round to prevent observation from outsiders whilst simultaneously getting a better look.
“What the hell is that, Sarge?”
“It’s a shotgun, Napier. Real, honest-to-god personal artillery.”
“It’s beautiful, Sarge. Must have cost you a packet.”
“I couldn’t afford it, son. Been in my family for five generations. It cost a hundred and ten grand back then.”
“Holy smokes, Sarge! Is that a British shooting iron?”
Sarge smiled.
“Sure is. Ladies, may I introduce you to a Holloway and Naughton Premier under-over 12 bore. Now I need two of you to go tell the armour to hull-down and cool their coils for an hour. Scoot!”
Jamieson and Napier took off like crazed caterpillars as Sarge selected the correct loads from the case. He lovingly cracked the breech and loaded paper wrapped tubes ahead of grey-jacketed cartridges before closing it with a smooth motion. Dumping every piece of detectable and energy pack reliant junk, he crawled off toward the enemy lines after giving terse instructions: “Timing is the thing here troops. I won’t be able to see the godogs from where I’ll be, so when you see them slip the leashes, you click two and one. Got me?”
“Yessir.”
He made his way round to the flank of the dugouts where the godogs were being prepped. It took him nearly too long to find the right angle, but he made it just as his headset clicked twice then once. Without hesitation, he aimed low across the leading edge of the dugouts and fired one barrel.
The godogs were primed and ready. Their senses detected the distant lure of magnetic fields and metals. They were just leaping up the slope of the dugout toward the enemy lines when a loud noise presaged a host of hot magnetic traces flying across their path and slamming into the field control centre. They howled with glee as their proximity-keyed mating urge drove them to accelerate at this new target.
Sarge smiled as the explosions tore the enemy command centre apart. He waited. Sure enough, a couple of greens came looking for him, their godogs leashed. Didn’t matter. Shoot one with a load of magnetic disks and the other one did the detonating. Time to sneak back and pack the family jewel away for another day.
by submission | Apr 22, 2012 | Story |
Author : Thomas Desrochers
Ellie’s leg was broken. They couldn’t run any more.
Andre gently eased her up against a grimy brick wall, trying to ignore the grimace of pain cracking across her porcelain face. “It’s going to be alright, love,” he whispered. “It’s going to be alright.”
He could hear the hooting, the hollaring, the screaming of the bugs behind them. There was sporadic gunfire, but not for long. Andre glanced up at the sky – it was a deep green, almost black. There was no sun today.
“Andre,” Ellie whimpered. “You need to keep going. Don’t stay here just because I can’t keep going.” She was crying, the tears gliding down to dangle desperately on the tip of her nose.
Andre grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “I’m not going to just leave you here,” he told her. Where could he run to, anyways? The last ships off were leaving any minute.
There was a distant roar of massive rockets engaging. A stale, warm wind began blowing down the alleyway. They were leaving now. There really was nowhere to go.
Andre slid down the wall next to Ellie and idly rubbed his thumb along her fingers as she squeezed his hand. He let out a long, deep breath. This was it, he realized. There would be no more running, no more laughing and playing, no more love under the cover of night, no more Ellie, no more Andre… There would be no more anything.
And it was going to hurt more than anything else. Bugs liked to torture.
Ellie leaned over and rested her head on Andre’s shoulder and closed her eyes. She was getting cold. Shock was a side-effect of a double compound fracture, it seemed. The air was beginning to reek of blood.
“Ellie,” he said. “Ellie. Do you remember the time we were at your sister’s house making whipped cream?”
“Yeah,” she whispered. A smile crept across her lips.
He laughed softly. It was hollow and empty, but she couldn’t tell. It was for her benefit. “We had that big huge bowl of it, it must have been eight liters of the stuff. And then you accidentally bumped it, and down it went!”
“Right onto the cat,” she murmured.
“Right onto the cat,” he agreed. “And that cat sped off through the house covered in whipped cream, hissing and mewing while your sister ran on after it yelling, ‘no, get back here, get back here!’”
Ellie giggled softly. “She was cleaning whipped cream off of things for an hour.”
Andre quietly pulled an old revolver from his pocket. “Right. And the sun was shining through the windows and your mother was going off again about how they don’t do things like they used to.” He checked the cylinder. One round left. “And I said to you, ‘So, how would you feel about marrying a bum like me?’”
She poked him gently in the side. “You just think you’re funny.”
The bugs were getting louder. They were getting closer.
“I was so nervous that you would say no.” He could hear their skittering. Their time was up. Andre ran a hand through Ellie’s hair. “I love you so much. So, so much.”
“I love you too. You make me so happy,” she replied.
The gunshot was like a peal of thunder, her mind and personality sprayed across the wall like so much red paint.
The bugs found him quickly after that. They made him scream until he couldn’t remember her name.
by submission | Apr 21, 2012 | Story |
Author : Daniel M. Bensen
Flaming debris rained over Warsaw.
“We got another one,” Specialist first rank Donaldson sat back in his chair and sighed happily at the red fireball against the blue sky. “Its over non-US territory, but we shot it before the Russians, so we’ll get first dibs on the goodies.”
“If the Russians play fair,” said Specialist Fourth Rank Nuñoz, “which they won’t.”
“Then we just need to beat them to the debris site.” Even now, priceless high tech junk would be cracking windows, splashing into rivers, pocking farmyard dirt. “Wheeg, get the Nationals on the horn.”
Wheeg, the translator gave a thumbs-up. She was already talking rapid-fire Polish into the telepathy sticker on the back of her hand. One of the first alien devices to find military application.
“Well that’s it then,” Donaldson said. “Nuñoz, break out the champagne. We get the rest of the day off, and then we’re back to watching the skies tomorrow.”
Nuñoz placed a fluted glass in Donaldson’s hand. “Cheers, sir.”
“Cheers.” Donaldson squeezed and the glass immediately frosted. Formerly tepid Brut sparkled.
“What’s that look?” Donaldson said, “Something wrong?”
“Nothing sir. It just feels” Nuñoz sipped from his self-cooling glass. “Bad?”
“Bad how? The aliens don’t respond to our communications. They don’t move or slow down. If one of those ships of theirs hits the earth, it would be a catastrophe worse than the one that killed the dinosaurs. And that’s assuming they don’t start vomiting alien death-soldiers. Even if they were the friendliest little green men in the universe, their diseases might still bring about the end of human civilization. This,” Donaldson passed a hand through the virtual workstation floating in the air in front of him, “is much safer.”
“For us, maybe.”
“Who else should we be worried about? Tell you what.” Donaldson downed his drink. “Next time you hit one, I’ll get you out on the ground searching for goodies that come out.”
